Disclaimer: this is fiction. However, there was one night, long ago, where I actually stood in front of a mirror on a New Year's Ever and said " This time, next year, you will be very happy." And I was. After leaving someone who was quite nasty. It was a good and brave thing to say out loud.
Civil
Wars
Jennifer
Lynn McCarthy
Part
One:
Invasion
of a Well-Heeled Woman
The smell of
desperation was thick. The pawn shop was full of odors competing for space.
Mildew, cigarette musk, old sweat mingled in a room ripe with sadness that no
amount of Lysol could remove.
Clare walked down a
large aisle, straightening up confidently as the cavernous room swallowed the
rays of hot sun that had momentarily followed her. Faintly, the minty smell of
marijuana floated through the air and her mind went for a moment back to
college. Along time ago, before her hair was refined into spun gold and her husband
dazzled her with gifts of leather, pewter and hard rocks.
A door slammed, and
two men sauntered behind the large glass cases, eyeballing the woman with the
red lacquered nails and genuine handbag.
Among the other
aisles, baseball caps jerked quickly down as she swept a glance behind her.
“Mexicans” she
thought. “Always so quiet.”
It was time to get
this sordid business over with. Clare stepped to the counter, stubborn chin out
and haughty tone dialed down as much as possible.
“Yes, I have some
things you might like to look at.”
She talked like she
had been asked a question. She licked her lips without thinking and stood
ramrod straight in her season- appropriate sundress and heeled sandals.
One of the men
stepped forward. His cheap polo shirt had the pawn shop’s logo embroidered over
a pocket and his gray eyes assessed her within seconds.
“My name is Griff.
What can we help you with today young lady?” Hand out, shook it and waited for
her sob story. None came.
Clare knew who he
was.
He was the “King of
Deals” on his obnoxious tv ads for this store and he ruled this part of the
town. The forgotten part of town where the paper mill ran 24 hours a day and
the bad smells from its chemicals blew further east.
The mill workers lived on
bare wages. They were often deemed the “heart and soul” of the quaint town but
were rarely treated with much heart and soul by its citizens. They were trotted
out by Council Members, Chamber of Commerce leaders and the Mayor as tokens of
American success. When the upper realm of the town had its holiday soirees and
fundraisers, the mill workers were sent cheap hams from the grocery outlets and
were most definitely never asked to the parties.
The chemicals from the mill did not blow into
Clare’s side of town. The town was probably built that way, a divine plan to
keep the blue collar workers in a permanent state of stench while her friends
lived near the warm breezes of sunsets, mojitos, inlets and bays.
Her husband used to
call the paper mill workers “stink bugs.” He thought that was supposed to be
funny. She always gave him a pass on dumb statements like this because he was
college educated and so must have meant no harm.
Griff shook her hand
lightly in an attempt to seem gentlemanly but it sent red flags up at once for
Clare.
Clare pulled her hand
away and remembered advice her Grandpa gave once:
“Never trust a big
man with a small handshake.”
Clare opened a small
soft bag she had in her purse and gently let her jewelry roll onto the greasy
glass top. Emeralds, sapphires, platinum and pearls rested there, teasing her
with old memories and false hopes. She had thought she would be sad at this
moment, but now she wanted nothing but to get them out of her sight, now. She could
have sold them online but had driven here with an urge to sell them for fast
cash. To get them off her hands.
Griff made a big
motion out of examining the pieces with a magnifying glass, getting out his
phone to look up prices, pacing and winking at her like he was helping her out
with a house loan. The charade was
ridiculous and both parties knew it. Clare would not get much for her jewelry,
of this she was now sure.
The shop’s glass case
was full of broken dreams, widowed promises and faded glory. Old wedding rings
were placed next to medals of honor. Trophies piled up on one shelf next to
battered hunting boots.
Clare allowed some memories from her past to
drift into her thoughts. Old family traditions with mom and dad. Harder times, but peaceful times. A past when getting one or two presents under
the tree was a very big deal. A time when a trophy she won for swimming meant
so much more than Italian shoes and dramatic highlights.
Something in Clare
started to give way. Her belly did a small flip flop. She shifted around and
noticed the quiet men with baseball caps putting items in their carts. One
gracefully picking up children’s toys and looking them over, then placing them in
a pile on the other counter ready to be taken home.
Griff came back to
her, chest puffed up with pride and assured on all things shiny and bright. He
was ready for a showdown, the kind he usually won.
“Well, I can offer
you $700 for all these, but I don’t need this right now – pearls aren’t
selling.”
The way his fat
little pinky finger brushed aside her pearl bracelet made her instantly lose
her cool.
Clare snapped.
“Have you lost your
ever lovin mind? Do you think I was born yesterday?”
Her eyes turned into
blue sparks of fury and her red lacquered pointer finger turned into a
threatening weapon as she jabbed the air about two inches from Griff’s chest.
He raised an eyebrow as if amused but looked around for his coworker who had
probably returned to their backdoor for another joint.
“Done! Done! Done
with this good ole boy redneck bullshit! Done!
You can kiss this good stuff goodbye and thank you but no thanks!”
She grabbed up her
jewelry and stuffed it into her purse, turned fast and practically flew out of
the pawn shop. As the sun hit her face, she opened the door, inhaling the paper
mill’s wafting breeze.
Clare whipped around,
filling the door with her tall silhouette and casting a shadow down the aisle
of the shop like some cowboy who had entered a saloon.
“By the way, your tv
ads suck really bad! They do. And – you should be ashamed of yourself the way
you rip people off in this town. All these poor people! Shame on you!”
The baseball caps
stayed low, no one uttered a word. Time stopped. The vein on her forehead that
her husband used to make fun of pumped blood so fast she felt dizzy. It stood
out on her maintained skin like a red angry caterpillar.
With a huff, she
opened the door to her champagne colored Jaguar and drove out of that red clay
parking lot as fast as she legally could do it.
Just like that, Clare
was back to her side of town. The side where parking lots are actually
paved. The good side of the town.
Part
Two:
Clare
Lets Go
The wide expanse of
her lawn invited her home with arms of ferns, live oaks and heavy moss. It was
hot, early summer. The air was as heavy as the Chanel #5 that Clare had
spritzed on her wrists on the drive home. She was trying to get rid of the pawn
shop fog, one expensive ounce at a time.
She flung her purse
on the custom kitchen counter and started her coffee maker. It was time for
afternoon coffee, an old habit from her marriage. In those days, afternoon
coffee meant something else altogether but it was a code word they could share
and laugh at together. She changed into a comfortable two piece ecru linen
outfit.
Clare allowed her
eyes to find the letter. It had remained opened all these weeks, 3 pages of
handwritten scribble scrabble that her husband had written. He had tried, in
some pathetically sweet way, to write down all the reasons why he loved her,
while proposing all the reasons why he just couldn’t be married any longer.
His reasons ranged from “You’re too good for
me” to “I need to find myself.” Every word was so clichéd that Clare was
astounded at how she almost pitied him. Her husband of 18 years. All of their
years melted down into three pieces of lined college ruled paper.
They had been best
friends. They did not have children, by choice. They had chosen to better the
world by traveling to exotic places, eating artisan foods, donating to
charities (water resourcing and AIDS of course) and sharing thoughts on climate
change. Both were from Southern towns and shared a nervous affinity for
Southern food, politeness and genteel living.
They tried to always walk the fine line between old money snobbery and
neuvo riche tackiness, and they did it very well.
They decried the KKK history
of the South and eagerly announced to people that they had black friends.
They
had a full life.
“Apparently, it’s not
enough. Apparently, someone comes home from work, ready to order Thai food and
sit on the gazebo and sees a letter sitting there, mocking every sense of
reality. One person tells another what they need and what they need is not in
their home,” Clare mused to herself. She was musing a lot these days.
During the past few weeks, she had gone from
being angry and astounded to other things. A constant sense of feeling lost. Amazement at how illiterate he seemed in his
letter. It seems all he learned in college was how to funnel beer, not how to
form a nice sentence.
What bugged her most
about her husband leaving was that they planned everything together. She felt
left out. It was a bizarre thought but it stayed in the background of her mind.
Her ego was more bruised than her heart, and she knew it. This would come to
help her pain.
Clare folded the
letter up tight. She didn’t need to see it right now.
And they were still
legally married.
She opened the French
doors and brought her coffee to the gazebo. Their back lawn was like a golf
course, rolling down to a bayou. It was orchestrated by the now wayward husband
and a team of Mexicans. He always employed Mexicans instead of other local
landscapers, calling them “good hard workers.”
It was a weakness her
husband had, hiring help to do things most husband do themselves. She used to
admire how they could afford this help, now it seemed oddly incongruent with
their environmental causes and urgent discussions about the plight of the poor.
The past few weeks had been a mental unraveling of all of their marriage myths.
Every couple has a few, Clare was making the uncomfortable discovery that her
marriage had more than a few.
She propped her legs
up onto a wrought iron table. Her husband hated it when she showed any sign of
un-lady like behavior. Now, she could do things her own way. It was nice not
asking him what he wanted for dinner and not having to listen to him talk about
the deep meaning of “Mad Men.” Yes, she could prop her feet up now without
disapproving smirks.
One of the Mexican
workers came into view, baseball cap lowered and hedge trimmer in hand. He saw
her and she gave a wave. He nodded quickly and hurried to their side yard. They
were always on time.
They never had questions. They just worked.
She knew his name was
Matt. Which she thought was unusual because she thought Mexicans had names like
Jesus or Enrique.
“Matt! Matt! Can you
come here please?” Clare called over the stranger that had been doing her yard
for eight years now, at least. Unacknowledged loneliness was doing its job.
He looked around, as
if waiting for a candid camera crew.
“Yes Ma’am.” He
stayed about 3 yards from the gazebo.
“How are you doing?
Your family I mean?”
“Fine ma’am.
Everything is looking good for Marie to start soccer this summer and Lilly’s
due date is December 24.”
“Oh, how nice! Tell
them all I said ‘hello’ please.”
Matt stood there,
awkwardly not knowing if this weird conversation with his boss was over.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t
mean to keep hold you up.” Clare said.
“Dumb girl” She
thought. “He thinks you’re crazy now and will probably quit soon.”
Clare had to remember
her manners next time and not drag Matt away from his job. She knew as well as
anyone in this town that if the Mexicans felt unwanted, they’ll move onto the
burbs of Tallahassee. God knew the Russian workers who took over the hotel jobs
would love to work houses like Clare’s and steal her kidney for the black
market while she slept.
Her phone chirped in
her pocket. Unknown number. Not her girlfriend Eva who had been calling like a
champ every day to make sure Clare hadn’t driven off a bridge on purpose yet.
“Hello?”
A surprised little
smile.
“Hi. Sure we can
talk. What is going on?”
Silence as Clare sat
up, crossed her ankles and
straightened her back.
With the other hand,
lifted her lukewarm coffee to red lips.
Sipped.
“What can I say.”
Silence.
“Good for you.” She
spoke with a now growing Southern accent that seemed to arise when her temper
got bad.
Then a sudden end to
the conversation as she pressed the red “end” button as her soon to be
ex-husband droned on to himself.
“Good for you.” Clare
repeated out loud to the huge rolling green yard.
The next few minutes
were ones that took Clare months to recall.
She had been let go.
Her husband was truly done. In fact, he had found the love of his life.
The love of his goddamn
life.
Really.
She seemed to glide
back into her house, floating over her well- kept lawn and into the kitchen.
She took those pearls, emeralds, sapphires and baubles and put them gently into
a small gift box, surrounded by tissues. She taped it shut on all four sides. She
remembered to breath out.
She felt on top of
the cabinets for an old vice – Winston Light cigarettes and lit one. A habit
that her husband had always hated. Clare knew it signaled some deeply buried
distain for lower class people in him. Something that he would never recognize
or acknowledge.
Instantly buzzing,
she ashed into her deep custom sink that was perfect for rinsing over- priced organic
vegetables. She opened a window and left the smoke fingers climb out. Her
neighbors would probably smell it and call the fire department. Nobody in their
circle of friends smoked anymore. Such a dirty habit. So low class. She inhaled thoroughly once
more.
She remembered a box of hair coloring under
her bathroom sink, bought on a whim.
Within the hour Clare
had trimmed two inches off her hair (which would have to be helped tomorrow),
dyed it auburn brown and made a pile of clothes to donate. She found Santana
and played it loud.
Heart racing, from
cigarettes and coffee she started dancing. It had been years since she danced.
The reproduction art
in the hallway suddenly seemed like props. She danced down the long hallway,
taking down each piece and leaning it on the wall. They would be great
donations.
Tomorrow, she planned to find her
shiny toe rings bought on vacation in the Bahamas. She would dig out her old
bohemian skirt and coordinate her toe rings with armfuls of loose loud
bracelets.
Tomorrow, she would continue to change her
life. She would grow her own vegetables. The lawn would get made into charming
rows of greens. She would make homemade soap. She would start knitting
eco-friendly scarves made from fair-trade yarn. She would sell her Jag and get
a scooter. She felt silly and childish with these thoughts.
In her bathroom, she
looked in the mirror and said in a rather deep voice driven by emotion,
caffeine and nicotine:
“This time next year,
you will be very very happy.”
Back in the kitchen,
she turned the box of jewels over and over slowly. Jewelry that was worth
thousands. Each could be sold at small auctions through the internet for more.
They held no value to her anymore.
“Insane.” Clare spoke out loud to herself.
Then, she opened the
side door to see if the lawn truck was still around.
She spotted Matt
drinking water from a cooler. “Matt!”
She called him away
from the crew getting into their trucks. Matt had been loyal for so many years.
She never dared asked what her husband paid him for his labor. It would have
insulted his sense of patriarchal Southern good heartedness. It suddenly hit
her that their huge lawns and house looked like some miniature version of “Gone
with the Wind.”
Yes, time to pull up roots and move or plow it up for a garden.
She slowed herself
down.
Felt the grass on her bare feet
for the first time in a long time.
The box held confidently in her manicured
hand.
She spoke to Matt among quiet drones of distant lawnmowers.
She spoke in a quiet
tone about how she was selling everything and probably moving out soon. She
spoke about how he was due a raise and how college for his children might be
expensive.
She asked him for discretion which he promised to give.
Clare said to Matt, “I
have something to give you and your family.”
She breathed out.
